


If Eternity Could Have an End

by louare



Series: When the Days Stop [1]
Category: Super Paper Mario (Game)
Genre: AU, Anger Management, Blood, Blood and Injury, Dimentio wins AU, Gore, Illness, Mentions of Violence, No Smut, Post-Super Paper Mario, Super Paper Mario AU, Vomiting, WTDS, alternative universe, fear of the dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29325048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louare/pseuds/louare
Summary: They'd been in this world for a while. Mr. L still isn't sure how to feel about it. He's alone, with only O'Chunks and his workshop to keep him busy- and they don't work nearly as well as they used to.Just as well then, that Dimentio decides to come around and stir things up, right when Mr. L felt like he was going to die from the boredom.(kind of prequel, kind of rewrite of 'eternity of clouded hell' ; all in all, a stand alone fic.)
Relationships: O'Chunks & Mr. L
Series: When the Days Stop [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2154015
Comments: 20
Kudos: 7





	1. Consequence

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you catch any errors! I proofread and edited at the same time, and I'm fairly certain I missed some things.

Mr. L strolled lazily around the flat edge of the house, pacing its familiar shape with his feet. He did this often, especially in the morning, when O’Chunks was still sleeping, and he didn’t dare do anything that might wake him up. He was bored; he was always bored. A couple of months in this wasteland would do that to anyone, he thought, and damned if he knew why Dimentio created this place. What did he want them to do here? It was an empty world still, too wide, too open, too green, and its ‘new god’ hadn’t put any work in to try to fill up, either. The most that he’d made were hills, rolling, green hills, bereft of even flowers, that went for miles in either direction. Those hills, and the house. Sometimes he wondered whether if he walked in a straight line towards the horizon, whether he would eventually walk right back to the house, or if he would be walking forever.

Mr. L paced the path at least every other day. When he didn’t pace, he slept too much, and it made him restless; in this new, perfect world, it was the only activity he really had. There was the workshop, but Mr. L didn’t bother even trying to work on any robots. There was no point. He would be building robots for no purpose, and he hated being purposeless. 

Somewhere around the ninth rotation around the house, Mr. L finally stopped and collapsed on the steps, tilting his head back to stare up at the sky. Blue, at least, but still cloudless, and still without any sort of sun. Light simply...permeated. There was no transition from day to night yet either; he guessed Dimentio either hadn’t gotten around to it yet, or didn’t know how to do it. When it was time for night, the day simply flicked off, like the changing of a picture. Stars, it seemed, were out of the jester’s range as well; the night sky was just blank, black, endless. Deeper and darker than the Void was.

Lost in his moping, Mr. L didn’t notice the hand until it gently brushed across his hair. Immediately he flinched away, sitting up. Behind him floated Dimentio, giggling. 

“Did I startle you?” He asked, his tone innocent, the smile on his face anything but. “My apologies.” 

“No!” Mr. L snapped, smoothing down his hair. “You just- you didn’t, okay? But maybe don’t sneak up on people?” 

Dimentio held his hands up, mirth sparkling in his eyes. “I shall keep that in mind.” 

Still scowling, Mr. L turned around, crossing his arms as he studied the jester. Dimentio hadn’t changed much, and somedays, it seemed like not at all. “What's the deal? Why are you here?” 

“I cannot visit?” 

“Some warning would be nice,” Mr. L shot back. “O’Chunks isn’t even up yet.” 

“Oh, I don’t wish to talk to O’Chunks,” Dimentio said. He shifted, cupping his chin in one hand as he took to a sprawled out position, despite the fact he was hovering several inches above the floor. “I’m simply doing a… quick survey, as it was. Of my inhabitants.”

“And that doesn’t include O’Chunks?”

Dimentio ignored him. “There are so many things to do,” he said, running his eyes over his surroundings. Mr. L thought he saw a little disappointment in his gaze. “However, I thought it prudent to see how the other living creatures of the world felt. What I should place my focus on. I’ve noticed a sort of… restlessness, about you two.” He returned his attention to Mr. L, giving him a wink. “I have been keeping an eye on your activities, or truthfully, lack thereof.” 

“How?” Mr. L scoffed. “Last time I saw you was what, a year ago?” 

“And I seek to rectify such absences.” Dimentio said, neatly ignoring the question. “So, Mr. L,” He waved a hand to their surroundings, “Any suggestions?”

Mr. L leveled a look at him. “So what, you want my opinion for once?“

“Of course.” There was a tone in his voice that gave Mr. L pause. The smile had dropped from Dimentio’s face, and he tensed, fear prickled up his spine. “As I just said. Need I repeat myself?”

“No- no! I mean…” He glanced to the side. “Maybe some trees I guess? Something to look at? Everything’s so empty, still, you know?” He shrugged, his skin prickling. “You’ve just never wanted my opinion before. I was caught off guard. It’s just a little boring around here, sometimes.”

Dimentio was silent for a few moments. Finally, Mr. L heard a laugh, and he looked back. A wave of relief swept through him as he saw the smile had returned, if smaller. 

“I’ll take that into consideration.” He paused. “Same time, same day, next week, hm?” 

Mr. L shrugged. “Sure?” He was fairly certain Dimentio wouldn’t show up. He’d been content to leave them be for a while now, working on ‘his world’ or whatever he did. “I guess?”

“Now, don’t sound so put out,” Dimentio chided. “I intend to visit you much more often from now on.” 

Mr. L hesitated before asking, “Why?” 

“Why?” Dimentio raised his hands again, palms to the sky. “I can’t simply visit my two favorite subjects?” 

“We’re not ‘your’ subjects you know, we…” Mr. L trailed off, seeing Dimentio cock his head to the side, as if listening to something. 

“Apologies, Mr. L,” He said brightly after a few moments. ”I’m afraid that brings our time to a close. Until next time.” 

Then an instant later, he was gone. Mr. L blinked. 

After a few moments, he glanced back up at the blank, slightly brighter sky. O’Chunks should be up soon, and he really didn’t care to wonder about what Dimentio was up to. He couldn’t care, couldn’t dwell. That was one of those hard, hard lessons he’d had to learn so many of recently. Don’t dwell on Dimentio’s weirdness, don’t care about it, don’t give it a second thought. That’s what Dimentio wanted, for him to pay attention and wonder. Mr. L had been perfectly content not giving Dimentio a moment’s thought for so long- barring the occasional, or sometimes frequent moment of weakness- and Mr. L wasn’t going to start giving the jester the satisfaction.

From inside the house, he heard the sound of banging pots, and the sink turned on. O’Chunks had finally gotten up, he guessed, and was starting breakfast, which was great, ‘cause he was getting hungry. He got to his feet, contemplating whether to do another walk around the house before facing the giant. O’Chunks could be more than a grump in the mornings.

There was a clatter as something in the kitchen fell, and O’Chunks swore, making his decision for him. Give him a few more minutes, Mr. L thought magnanimously, let him wake up and greet the dawn properly. 

Something else hit the ground inside, and broke, if O’Chunks’s shouts were anything to go by.

He went around the house five times before it felt safe to go in. 

When he opened the door, O’Chunks was standing at the stove. There was nothing on the floor- Mr. L glanced to the trash can, seeing the remains of a broken plate. At least it had been an ugly one, he thought.

“Good mornin’.” O’Chunks said, not turning around. 

“Hey,” He returned. Mr. L pulled out a chair at the table, wincing as it scraped against the floor. The sound was loud in the silent, tense air. “Uh, Dimentio was just by.” He said, studying his hands.

“Yeah?” The sudden sounds of sizzling. O’Chunks tossed something into the trash. “What did ‘e want?”

Mr. L shrugged. “I don’t really know. He was acting weird actually, you know?” 

“No, I don’t. Weird ‘ow?” 

“I don't know, just weird. Weirder than normal.” He paused, waiting for O’Chunks to respond. “He was asking for suggestions for some reason.” 

“Hm.” 

“Like, on what to do with the world and junk.” 

“Ah. T’at is weird.” 

“I told him trees. That’s the only thing I could think to suggest, you know? Other than, maybe some animals or something. I’ve never seen a cow. Maybe he could make some cows.” O’Chunks turned, shooting him such an incredulous look Mr. L bristled. “What?” he snapped, raising his chin in challenge. 

O’Chunks opened his mouth to say something, then closed it a moment later, shaking his head and turning back to the stove. “Maybe,” He said, deadpan. “I don’t want teh talk about ‘im right now, aye? Come ‘elp with breakfast first.” 

Mr. L rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. It was an old argument between them. “I don't know how to cook.”

“Maybe if yeh’d help out more, yeh’d learn.” 

“Why should I learn? You do it good enough by yourself.” 

“Yeh don’t do nothin’ around here. Least you could do is try.”

“Chunky, I’m not gonna do it, and you can’t make me. Simple as that.” 

The glass in O’Chunks’s hand shattered. 

Mr. L was on his feet before he realized it, instinctively backing towards the door before he came back to himself and stopped. He watched O’Chunks, who hadn’t moved, staring down at his hand. Blood began to drip, small quick drops that splattered on the white countertop. 

O’Chunks’s voice was calm. “Get meh a towel.” 

Mr. L didn’t need another invitation; he turned, and bolted from the room. Down the hall, in the bathroom- he fumbled through the cabinet, looking for one the green towels. Something told him taking one of O’Chunks’s blue ones would make it worse.

When he returned, O’Chunks was leaning over the sink, one hand covering his eyes. His bleeding hand hung over the drain, dripping red down into the silver. 

He sat up, and took the towel. Mr. L stepped back, watching him. 

Leaning back against the counter, O’Chunks wrapped his hand tightly in the rough terrycloth, then held it to his chest, staring at the floor. They stood there for several moments, neither of them talking. Mr. L willed O’Chunks to just even look at him, but the Irishman did nothing. He looked tired.

Mr. L finally broke the silence. “I’m not really, uh, hungry anymore.” 

O’Chunks nodded once. 

“I’m going to… hang out outside for a while.” 

O’Chunks nodded again. 

Mr. L took a step back, and when O’Chunks didn’t stop him, he turned and nearly ran out the door-he didn’t actually run, it wasn’t like he was scared- bounding down the steps, and walking aside the house until he was out of sight of the front door. He ignored the fear still prickling up his spine and collapsed onto the grass. It felt stiff, like plastic. After a glance to make sure O’Chunks couldn’t see him out here, he tore off a few of the blades and started to dissect them with his nails. The green, sticky slivers that came away felt wrong, like they weren’t really what grass used to be like, but Mr. L couldn’t bring up any memory to compare it too. 

Guess lunch is a bust, he thought. He wasn’t cooking. O’Chunks could throw whatever fit he wanted to, cooking wasn’t his job. There should still be leftovers in the fridge. He hoped there was at least, if O’Chunks hadn’t wolfed them down yet. He’d wait until about eleven- that’s when O’Chunks usually retreated to his weight room- before sneaking back inside. 

Mr. L threw aside the torn pieces of grass, and ripped out another handful, staring up at the sunless sky.


	2. Carelessness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys talk. Mr. L lashes out. O'Chunks gives up.

Early afternoon found Mr. L in his workshop, rummaging through the scattered contents that littered the floor and benches. It had been messy when he arrived in this world, and it had remained messy since. He had to hand it to Dimentio. This was a close approximation of what his old garage used to look like-to an outsider- but it was still off, in some way.  
  
There was nothing in here, for instance, Mr. L thought irritably, even if he wanted to make a bot. It was like Dimentio thought of what random piles of metal looked like, and called it a day. Or as if he had taken maybe a passing glance at the workshop at the castle, and made a blurred replica of it. He had plenty of tools. Plenty pieces of scrap metals, and multiple colored wires. A couple thousand screws. But nothing useful. Building robots was more complicated than this mess. 

Robotics involved programming and wires, it involved sleepless nights hunched over fragile machinery, carefully manipulating the circuits until his eyes burned. Hours of welding- he didn’t even have a single stick welder. What, did Dimentio think you could just hammer junk together and create a masterpiece?  
It involved creativity, ingenuity. Intelligence. Drive. Everything he didn’t use anymore.

After a while, O’Chunks came to visit, peering out from the doorway into the garage. Mr. L glanced at his hand. It had been bandaged, the white wrap visible on the back of his hand.  
“What’re yeh doin’?” O’Chunks called out. 

Mr. L thought about not answering for a moment, then decided there were too many things in the room O’Chunks could conceivably kill him with. “Just taking a look around.” He looked around, as if to prove his point. “I might start a project or something.” 

O’Chunks stepped down the concrete stairs, his bare feet scratching against the floor. There was a mug clenched in one hand, and a towel thrown haphazardly over his shoulder. “Cold down ‘ere. “ He commented. 

Mr. L shrugged in response. “I hadn’t noticed.” He murmured. Of course, he was fully dressed and not just out of the shower. 

“If yehr okay with it,” O’Chunks said finally , his mouth twisting. He leaned against one of the work tables, making the wood creak. “What sorta project?” 

Mr. L shrugged again. “I don’t know. Some sort of robot, I guess.” 

“What’s this one going to do?” O’Chunks said, raising an eyebrow. 

“I don’t know.” Mr. L glanced at a nearby pile of junk. “Does it have to do anything? Maybe I just want to make some stuff. Work a little. Does it matter?”

O’Chunks clenched his jaw for a moment before forcibly relaxing it. “Ah, I guess not.” 

Silence bloomed, and it was more than uncomfortable. Mr. L pretended to shift through a pile of metal, keeping his eyes down. He waited for O’Chunks to leave, but O’Chunks just stood there, watching.

“What are you going to do?” he finally said.

O’Chunks sighed. “What’s t’ere teh do? Guessin’ I’ll work out a bit.” 

Of course. Between cooking and working out, that was all O’Chunks did. Mr. L didn’t know why he bothered; it wasn’t like O’Chunks ever got more or less chunked. 

“Cool.” 

“You want teh join?” 

Mr. L made a noncommittal noise. He knew what this was. Some sort of apology, a hand offered in goodwill for what happened yesterday morning. Mr. L didn’t want any part in it. “I’m good right now.” 

“Maybe later?” O’Chunks pressed.

“Why are you so worried?” Mr. L shot back.” I might, I might not, okay? Maybe I’ve got my own stuff to do. Maybe I just want to build something. It’s not a crime.” 

“It’s not, but I don’t want teh see waste away like yeh used to, obsessed with t’ose machines,” O’Chunks said, his brow furrowing. “Yeh used to starve yourself-“

“Don’t talk about the castle,” Mr. L snapped. “And just ‘cause I don’t eat your food doesn’t mean I don't eat, by the way. I made breakfast for myself, when you stopped hogging the kitchen.” A bold faced lie; he hadn’t eaten all day.

O’Chunks raised a hand in surrender, frowning as he set his cup down on a nearby workbench. “I’m just trying to make conversation. Inn’t not’in’ else teh do, might as well try to get along wit’ each other. Right?”

Mr. L grunted in response, purposefully shoving a pile aside with more force than necessary. “Right.” he agreed, his tone anything but agreeable. 

O’Chunks paused, looking at him with a look in his eyes like he had just realized something. “It’s okay, yeh know,” he said softly, “I’ve just been havin’ a lot of things on my mind. I’m not mad at yeh, if yeh’re worried-”

Mr. L dropped what he was holding, wincing at the noise as it clattered and echoed in the space. It had the desired effect, though: O’Chunks finally shut up for five seconds. 

“Why are you even bringing that up?” He said. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I jus’-”

“I don’t care. I don’t care! Why would I?” His voice slowly rose with every word that curled out of his mouth, hot and sharp but a relief all the same. “But I come here to relax, just to relax for one day, and you have to butt in? You have to try to make everything better? Are you feeling guilty about something, or are you just trying to annoy me?”

The following silence was an instant relief. O’Chunks studied him. Mr. L stared back, meeting his gaze, forcing himself not to flinch back. The concrete pooled beneath him, cool against his bare feet. 

He still felt naked without his mask. Mr. L had stopped wearing it a long time ago, after Dimentio’s cheerful comments wore him down, but he missed it. Without his mask, it felt like everyone and the world could read him like a book, and he couldn’t hide anything, especially from O’Chunks. 

O’Chunks blew out a breath, still not looking away. “Alright. Didn’t mean to bother yeh t’en.” He spoke flatly, picking up his cup. “I’ll let you alone.” 

Finally, Mr. L thought, but didn’t dare say it. He only watched as O’Chunks stood up from the table, shifting his bare feet across the stone floor. 

“I’ll be in the weight room, if you need me.” 

Mr. L nodded, looking back down at his scrap and beginning to shift through it again. Too big a piece, another too warped. He categorized each one, doing anything but acknowledging the figure behind him making his way up the concrete steps, hesitating as he reached the doors. A set of eyes burned into the back of his head, but he ignored them. 

Finally, the door shut-not slammed- and Mr. L breathed a sigh of relief, a knot in his chest uncurling as the blessed silence surrounded him. His hands were shaking. Mr. L clenched them into tight fists for several moments. He clenched them until his nails bit into his palms, and his fingers began to ache. 

Then he let go, releasing his held breath and feeling the trickling anxiety in his chest go with it. 

Stupid O’Chunks. Stupid, stupid stupid, always had to try to fix things, always had to make it better- even if it didn’t need it. He started to kick aside a piece of tin, then stopped himself, taking another deep breath. The metal didn’t deserve that. 

A trickle of something wet fell down his palm, and he looked at his hands to find them bloody. The small crescent moons where he’d dug his nails had broken skin, and red welled in the small indents like water bubbling up from a well. 

Mr. L couldn't find it in him to feel anything other than disgust. He wiped his hands on his shirt, and kept working. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did originally feel this chapter needed more meat to it,,, but in the end, I just left it. Nothing really more to say, is there?


	3. Correction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get a new attraction. It's not quite finished yet, though, Mr. L, mind getting out? No? Okay. Suffer then.

He didn’t sleep that night. He stayed in the workshop, long past when he usually went to bed, and when the endless mess and metal became too much, he snuck out and went to the den. O’Chunks often didn’t come into the living room, salon, lounge- they hadn’t yet agreed on what to call it- and Mr. L appreciated the solitude. 

It was a barren room, all together. A single couch and an armchair, and a braided rug in a maelstrom of different colors on the floor. There were no paintings to decorate the walls, and the three windows, one on each side of the room, barring the one with the couch, had no curtains.By the couch, there was the exit that lead to the rest of the house through the single hallway that connected nearly all the rooms: the kitchen, the weight room, the bedrooms. The only three rooms O’Chunks ever bothered with. He hardly even went outside most days- Mr. L could never figured out whether it was out of spite, weariness, or an unwillingness to explore their new world. 

Light blue walls. Dark, smooth floorboards. Otherwise, bare. Otherwise, boring. 

Mr. L laid on the couch, half-dozing until the sound of footsteps snapped him back to attention. He sat up in time to see O’Chunks hovering in the doorway, looking around the room warily, like he was stepping into a trap.

“What?” Mr. L snapped. He could smell breakfast in the next room, but he doubted O’Chunks was about to offer anything. He didn’t care, he could sneak something later. 

“You look outside today?” O’Chunks asked. Mr. L shook his head. “We, eh… I t’ink we got trees.” 

“What?” Mr. L repeated, scrunching up his face. 

O’Chunks shrugged. “Look for yourself.” 

He turned and walked back towards the kitchen, leaving Mr. L to wiggle out of the couch cushions and follow. 

“I heard it,” O’Chunks said over his shoulder. “Last night. Thought it was ah earthquake at first.” 

“Heard it?” Mr. L repeated.

There was breakfast on the table-one plate- but Mr. L was too focused on the sight outside the kitchen window. O’Chunks was right. They had a forest now, in the distance, maybe half a mile away. Tall, straight, skinny pine trees made a frame against the horizon, their dark needles almost black in the distance.

“Huh,” He said. 

O’Chunks made his way to the sink, but there being no dishes to wash, he stood there awkwardly, unwilling to eat with Mr. L in the room. “Guess he listened, aye?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Mr. L agreed absently, eyes scanning the deceptively normal-looking tree-line. It seemed normal to him, at least, and O’Chunks hadn’t said anything about it being off. “You want to check it out?”

“Nae,” the vehemence in his voice was sharp, and Mr. L turned to him in surprise, “I stay out of... t’em places. Yeh’re free teh check it out if yeh want. I’ll be ‘ere.”

“Why?” Mr. L questioned. “They’re just trees, right? Do they look normal? Is something wrong with them?” 

“T’ere normal. Go look if yeh want, I’ll just stay ‘ere.”

He wanted to ask, but at the same time, he didn’t. “Whatever,” Mr. L said finally, looking out at the trees again. It wasn’t worth the fight. “I’ll check it out. See you at lunch, I guess.”

“In t’at?” O’Chunks said, before he could make it out the door.

“What?” Mr. L glanced down at his clothes. “Why, does it matter?” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cared about what he was wearing. “Who’s even going to see?” 

O’Chunks grimaced. “T’ere going to get dirty, yeh know. Yeh gonna wash t’em?”

Mr. L scowled. O’Chunks knew his weakness, chores. “Fine,” He muttered, stomping past him. “I’ll go change.” 

He emerged in a set of older clothes that were already worn out and filthy, earning a nod of approval as he stormed back past O’Chunks and outside. He squinted in the sudden brightness and held up a hand as he looked up in surprise. Another upgrade. An actual sun. Or maybe just a giant lamp, Mr. L wasn’t going to stare until he found out. 

Still, it was rather nice to feel the warmth on his back as he trudged across the rolling plain. Something about the grass felt different today too; less crunchy. Brown pine needles interspersed with the dark green grass, weeds tapping against his knees as he walked through them. Before long Mr. L stood before the towering pines, staring up in what was undeniably awe. 

It occurred to him that he’d never been in a forest before. Or even seen one in person, he thought as he walked forward, his steps slow as he savored this new, unexpected experience. He wondered if this was accurate too, or if it was wrong in some way he couldn’t know. Hard soil, softened by the blanket of pine needles crunched under his feet, and the air around him felt cooler, shaded by the trees. It was silent, something he was familiar with, but even O’Chunks made a little noise at the house- this was an absence of any. 

Mr. L slowed, finally coming to a stop as he looked around, taking in his surroundings. Why was it so quiet here, he mused.

Then the silence was broken by a familiar snap, and Mr. L flinched, whirling around to find Dimentio, looking contrite. 

“Apologies,” He said innocently. “Did I frighten you?”

“No,” Mr. L snapped. “I… I thought I smelled something rotten. Guess it was just your ugly mug.” 

Dimentio just laughed softly as he floated by Mr. L’s side, keeping pace as Mr. L began walking again.

“I could say the same about you,” Dimentio said smoothly. “And what is a man so rotten doing out this early?

“Looking around, what do you think?”

“Trespassing on private property,” Dimentio retorted, but there was a tease in his voice. “So curious already?” 

“Wouldn’t you be?” Mr. L shot back. “Giant bunch of trees come out of nowhere... Might as well check it out. Nothing better to do.” 

“Nothing better to do,” Dimentio repeated, as they strolled in no particular direction. Despite the ease to the words, Mr. L felt a twinge of fear run down his spine. “Well. I understand, I suppose, you were always the flighty sort. Can’t stay in the house long enough for me to finish? Ah, it doesn’t matter. Do you think it’s,” he waved at their surroundings. “ is realistic, then?” 

“I guess-” 

“You stayed a lot in forest environments, correct? Before you came to work for Count Bleck?” Mr. L winced at the name. “Or was it the plains? Mr. L, would you tell me?”

“I don’t-”

“My apologies, you don’t remember, do you? Sometimes I forget how little you know,” Dimentio said, satisfied. 

Anger flared in him, but Mr. L tapped it down, only nodding his head and staring forward. 

“Oh, don’t think I’m being insulting,” Dimentio assured, a touch too late. “Simply pointing out, you wouldn’t have the background to know about such places and how… dangerous they could be. Correct?”

“Sure, Mr. L said, resigned. “And you know all about it, huh?”

Dimentio opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment, a deafening crack rang through the air; Mr. L floundered back as more cracks followed, the sound of something ripping apart. Dimentio didn’t move. To the right of them, Mr. L watched as a giant of a tree eased towards the ground, falling as though in slow motion, before crashing to the forest floor with a deafening sound. 

“Told you, it can be quite dangerous,” Dimentio commented, sounding smug. Mr. L ignored him, taking a few steps towards the fallen giant. It had ripped out of the ground by its roots, leaving the brown, damp strings exposed to the air as black dirt trickled down and back to the ground. 

“Leave it,” Dimentio commanded. Mr. L shot him a glare and defiantly walked a few steps closer, studying the web-like roots.

“A mistake,” Dimentio said softly. “I’ll admit it. The root system wasn’t expansive enough, to hold it in the ground. It toppled under its own weight. “ He sighed, before his tone changed, became more commanding. “You should get back home. I’m not finished with this at the moment; I wouldn’t want you to get injured. “

“Whatever.”

“Mr. L-”

“I heard you.” Mr. L said curtly, “I’ll start back in a second.”

Dimentio stared at him for a moment, and with a frown, he disappeared. Mr. L looked back to the tree. 

In the following moments of being alone, Mr. L realized the answer to his own question. The forest was empty. There were supposed to be bugs, birds. Animals too, though he couldn’t think of any. Names like that always slipped from his head, and he didn’t bother trying to keep a grasp of them anymore. O’Chunks used to make fun of him for it. He’d only stopped recently, when he figured out Mr. L wasn’t doing it on purpose. 

So he couldn’t make living things yet, Mr. L mused. Unless trees counted. But Mr. L didn’t know, or didn’t remember enough about the things to know if they did.

He started walking back, shoving his hands into the crisp pockets of his jeans- _and scowled, pulling out a mushroom before shoving it in his mouth. The familiar taste was dry and bitter against his tongue, but the ensuing numbness was a relief_ \- 

Mr. L stopped, blinked. The taste was still in his mouth, like cotton, but there was nothing to chew on, there never had been. After a few moments, he started walking again. 

And just on cue, images flashed before his eyes. 

_He stepped out onto the rich loamy soil of the _____ Woods, feeling the dirt sink slightly underneath his boots. Fruit hung lowly from the dense, low hanging branches that crowded around him. Just ahead, the man in red-_

He pinched his arm, and the memory- hallucination faded. The quiet forest surrounded him, the only sound his heavy breathing and the pounding of his heart.

_The man in red kicked aside a spiky creature, and without turning, motion for Mr. L to come on. He sighed, replyig,” ____, __.”_

_“These are new boots,” the man in red said, sounding incredulous. ”Don’t pick anything up, by the way, ____ said it would-”_

“Stop it,” Mr. L hissed, and started running. He jumped easily through the copses of trees, keeping his balance even as he slid and nearly fell in the dead needles _\- and under the wave of the liquid sword, wincing as the sticky drops splashed against his face._

_“___ ___ _ ___ _ _ ____,” Mr. L complained, prompting an eyeroll from the man in red._

_“Is it sentient, you think?” he said, changing the subject. “Or is it just…”_

_“______?” Mr. L suggested._

_“Ghost soda sounds pretty disgusting though, bro.” The man in red dodged as a bullet of pink soda came flying towards him. Before Mr. L could reply, he had to jump to avoid his own volley of liquid projectiles-_

He slowed to a stop, panting, staring at the break in the treeline where he could just make out the house _\- the factory._

_“Ready bro?” the man in red said._

_“__. _ __ _ ___.” He answered, giving him a tired smile._

_The man in red grinned back, and reached out to touch his shoulder-_

Mr. L jumped.

A hand laid itself on his shoulder, but this wasn’t soft, wasn’t the warm hand he expected. Its touch was light, and cold. 

Mr. L turned his head and looked directly into Dimentio’s mask, only inches away from his own face. 

“Go home.” 

He disappeared again.

For a moment the trees blurred; he saw a town, a castle. The name slipped away from him, but he saw the stone towers and green faces and gold. 

Then it faded, and all he saw was home, and a figure in the window, waiting for him.

He hesitated. His feet had moved forward by themselves, and he stood outside the line of pines, tall, towering above him. He glanced back at them, wondering. He almost thought he could see Dimentio’s face somewhere within, watching him.

Mr. L shivered, although he was not cold, and started walking back towards the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> decided to make peasley canon in this au- him and a few other character who will be revealed later. tbh,,,, it doesn't really matter if they are revealed, if u think about it, bc they're all also dead


	4. Consumption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. L gets sick. O'Chunks grudgingly helps him. Dimentio reveals something.

The first clue that the day was going to be miserable was when Mr. L went to open his eyes that morning, and found that they had been crusted shut. By the time he’d rubbed them enough to open them, he was fully awake, and fully aware of the pounding headache assaulting his skull.

He couldn’t be sick. It didn’t make _sense_ for him to be sick, he hadn’t gotten sick since he didn’t know when. 

With considerable effort, he pushed back the sheets and got to his feet, feeling malaise wash over him in waves. He put one hand against the wall to steady himself, nausea curdling in his gut. He swallowed it back and made for the bathroom.

The second clue was when he stumbled out of his room, and O’Chunks was already awake, just leaving the bathroom in pajama bottoms with a towel hung around his neck. He took one look at Mr. L, and with one hand pushed him back in his room. 

“Yer sick, I can tell,” He said flatly. “Stay in and rest.”

“I’m not-” 

“Just look at yerself, yer paler than a quart a’ curdled milk!” 

“I’ve never gotten sick before, it makes no sense to be now, ” Mr. L snapped, crossing his arms. “Besides. You can’t keep me in bed.” 

“Would yeh like to bet?” 

Mr. L paused, and decided not to argue _that_ point. “Can I at least go to the bathroom?” 

O’Chunks stepped back with gesture to ‘go ahead,’ but his eyes followed as Mr. L stepped by. As soon as he crossed the tile threshold, it was a swift tumble to the floor as he began vomiting in the toilet. Thankfully, O’Chunks refrained from making a snide comment, though Mr. L could almost feel the smugness radiating off of him. 

“Not a word,” He hissed over his shoulder, then bent over again.

“Happens teh everyone lad,” O’Chunks said. He walked off, probably to get dressed, Mr. L thought. This left him just enough time to make it to the kitchen for breakfast, then out of house before O’Chunks locked him in his bedroom- it would have, that is, if he hadn’t bent over again, throwing up his guts.

It was a good half hour before he made it out of the bathroom, drained, and by that time, O’Chunks was waiting for him. He blocked him as he tried to make it to the kitchen, pushing him back with a gentle ease.

“I’ve got to _eat,_ Chunks.” 

O’Chunks waved him off. “Yer sick. Stay in t’ere and rest. I’ll bring yeh some soup later.” 

“Oh, so _now_ you don’t mind cooking.” Mr. L said snidely. 

O’Chunks didn’t bother with a reply, most likely deigning to take pity on a sick man. Instead, he stood there and silently dared Mr. L to make a break for it. 

Mr. L weighed his options, decided he probably couldn’t run outside faster than O’Chunks could trip him, and stepped into his room with a glare.

“Thanks,” O’Chunks said, clearly pleased. “I’ll bring yeh something in while. Try teh rest.” 

With that, he closed the door. Mr. L was half surprised he didn’t lock it too, since he was wanting to act like a jerk. He _wasn’t_ sick, not here. It didn’t make any sense.

He couldn’t deny, however, that it was with a sense of relief that he collapsed back into bed.

The memories- or hallucinations, whatever he saw yesterday were still fresh on his mind. Mr. L hadn’t thought about Mr. Jumpsallthetime in ages- guy was probably dead now, but it was weird seeing him acting so friendly. He hadn’t been friendly when they fought, Mr. L thought, but to be fair, he did kinda throw the first punch. A banger of one too, he added with a smirk.

The mental picture of the moment he’d laid out the hero- as he steadfastly ignored how he got his ass kicked later- carried him as he fell asleep.

He slept until lunch, dreaming of explosions until O’Chunks shook him awake with the promised food. He was surprised he had slept as much as he did, and even more surprised he was still tired. 

“Huh,” he mumbled, struggling to sit up in his tangle of a blanket, “You actually brought me something?” 

“Soup,” O’Chunks announced, flourishing the bowl. A shake of his head stopped Mr. L as he began to get out of bed. “Just be careful wit’ it, so it don’t spill.” 

He took the bowl cautiously, and leaned back, propping it against the outline of his limbs under the blankets. O’Chunks stood nearby, watching, waiting to see if he’d have to jump in and help. 

The soup was good- he wasn’t surprised, O’Chunks was a good cook. What did itch at him was how terrifyingly familiar this scene felt to him, made worse by the fact he floundered to match it with the corresponding memory. It was like an old dream misplaced before he could wake up and understand it enough to remember it, or maybe it was just the look of rare concern on the other man’s features. He couldn’t tell whether he appreciated it, or hated it. 

He shook himself out of his thoughts, feeling O’Chunks’s gaze on him.

“I’m not sick,” he muttered, shoving the spoon in his mouth. “Just tired. You don't have to baby me.” 

“Probably just a stomach bug, lad,” O’Chunks tossed out casually. 

“That doesn’t make sense,” Mr. L insisted. “I’ve never gotten sick in my life!”

“That you can remember.” 

Mr. L winced at the word and dropped his spoon. “I’m done,” He muttered. O’Chunks looked dubiously at the half-full bowl. “If I eat anymore, I’ll throw up again,” he snapped. “I’m serious.” 

With a sigh, O’Chunks reached out for the bowl, but to his surprise, Mr. L hesitated before handing it to him.

“Thank you,” he said reluctantly.

O’Chunks gaped at him.

“Really?” Mr. L snapped.

The awed look disappeared, replaced by a too-smug smile. “It’s no problem, lad,” O’Chunks said with a pat to Mr. L’s shoulder. “Get some more sleep, aye?” 

“Whatever,” Mr. L muttered, settling back against the pillows. He closed his eyes, hearing the door closed moments later. For a while, the room was quiet. 

He wasn’t sure when he noticed the other’s presence. There wasn’t a sound, not a creak of the floor, a woosh of air, or a sinking as he settled at the end of the bed. Not even the sound of breathing- Dimentio didn’t even breathe, hadn’t since they’d gotten here, as far as Mr. L knew. At some point, however, he opened his eyes, and saw the familiar purple jester sitting at the end of the bed.

“What are you doing in my room?” He mumbled, too tired to put real annoyance in his voice. “Get out.” 

“Oh?” His voice was odd, mocking and exuberant all in one. “Whyever so? I cannot enter your bedroom as I please?” 

“It’s _my_ bedroom, so yeah,” Mr. L snapped. “And besides, I’m sick.” It was different admitting it to Dimentio- the jester always got snippy when he lied. “And you’ll be too, if you don’t get away.”

“Oh, I know, Mr. L.” Dimentio shifted, crossing his legs and wiggling his feet. He seemed strangely excited, his grin even wider than normal. “I made you sick.”

“What?” Mr. L made a face. “No, you didn’t. That’s not…” He trailed off. “...It’s a stomach bug, O’Chunks said.” 

“And I created it.” There was a maniac look in his eyes. “I created the bacteria that made you sick. Me. I breathed life into these microscopic beings, I gave them the ability to harm. I made sickness, Mr. L.” He laughed. “I’ve created the plagues, Mr. L, pestilence, disease.” 

Mr. L couldn’t find anything to say. He just stared.

“Every day I grow into more of my power,” Dimentio whispered, “Every day I realize more and more of its uses. Godhood is such a… it’s an intoxicating experience.”

“Intoxicating?” Mr. L repeated.

Dimentio didn’t answer at first, seeming to savor the question, his face lifting towards the sky as he thought. “I have so much potential,” He said finally, “It thrums through me, the energy to create anything I desire. It is such an incredible feeling.” Dimentio glanced down at Mr. L. “You could never understand. It is like a thousand blazing stallions straining at the bit all at once, like lightning bottled and compressed into a current brighter than the sun. However…” His hand rested on Mr. L’s leg. “I haven’t quite figured out how to… stop the sickness,” Dimentio said, a small frown on his lips. “I suppose it’s just as well I started with something so harmless. I hope to understand the process, of creation and abolition before I try something bigger. It will take time, I suppose. As well as a fair bit of experimentation.” 

“Wait,” Mr. L said. “What are you going to experiment with? With _who?_ ” 

Dimentio shrugged, his smile returning with the force of a strong gale. “I suppose you shall see.” 

They stared at each other. Mr. L’s face was pale and frowning, and Dimentio’s face beaming. His eyes were glittering like sharp stones.

“Get out of my room,” Mr. L muttered.

Dimentio laughed and disappeared. Mr. L kicked at the spot where he’d been to make sure, and then hesitantly eased himself back down, laying back against the covers with a strange sense of exhaustion. 

He hadn’t thought about Mario in a while, he remembered suddenly. Only now did he realize he couldn’t remember exactly how long it had been.

Maybe that’s why it hurt so much, to think of how life used to be. Before they were brought here. Before the count died, before Dimentio became a god. Before living was a balance between avoiding death and trying to even want to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dimentio, casually barging into mr. l's room: yo mr. l fuck you *unhealthys ur immune system*


	5. Countenance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. L can't keep his mouth shut. O'Chunks can't either. 
> 
> Dimentio... doesn't know how celestial bodies work.

He didn’t sleep after that. Mr. L laid awake for an hour, then two. Eventually, still tired but too bored to stay in bed, he crept out to the hall, listening hard. After a few moments, he caught the sound of metal rattling, and rhythmic grunts, enough of a clue to make him wince. Exercise. He never would figure out why O’Chunks liked it so much, but at least it left him free to do what he wanted.

He padded down the hall, taking care to be quiet, and stepped outside. It had passed the heat of the afternoon and had started into the cooling of the evening, their new sun slowly sinking towards the edge of their world. It was an oddly beautiful sight.

Mr. L eased himself down onto the steps, leaning his head against the corner of the top stair. It wasn’t comfortable, but it suited him well enough as he watched the sun set. After a while, he noticed that he was wrong. The sun wasn’t moving at all, only hanging there in a not-quite right facsimile.

Really, he thought in disgust, how hard could it be to make it move? He didn’t know how hard it was to push around celestial bodies, but if Dimentio claimed to have made the thing, it couldn’t be too hard to go the extra mile. 

He wiped his hand across his face, and sighed, then drew it back and looked at the scabbed, nearly healed cuts dotting over his palm. With his other hand, he picked at the scab until it ripped away, revealing a reddened round wound bed underneath. Blood welled up from its center within seconds, creating a bright red bead.

The creak of the door behind him startled him out of his musing, and he quickly pressed his hand to his shirt as he turned around. O’Chunks stood at the door, chest still heaving from his workout.

“Hey,” he greeted cautiously.

O’Chunks nodded and grunted, casting a wary glance at the horizon as he padded down the porch and settled down on the steps. Mr. L scooted over to make room.

“Yeh feeling any better?” O’Chunks muttered, scratching at his head.

Mr. L nodded. “A bit,” he said. “I mean, not really, but I’ll get over it.”

“You should go back in and rest,” O’Chunks said sternly, but made no motion to make him, so Mr. L ignored it.

“You alright?” he said instead.

O’Chunks shrugged. “Suppose so. Why?”

Mr. L made a vague noise of dismissal, picking at another scab on his palm. He glanced over to O’Chunks, then to the still bandaged hand hanging casually over one knee.

Mr. L took in a deep breath, and quickly said, “I’m sorry.”

O’Chunks, to his surprise, snorted and leaned back, rubbing a hand through his beard. “What fer now?”

“Your hand-”

“You didn’t even do anything,” O’Chunks spoke over him, sounding exasperated. “I broke the cup myself, you didn’t make me. “

“But I provoked you,” Mr. L insisted. “I always am, even when I don’t want to, and I don’t even know why. I just keep- doing things like that.”

“You’re just being how you always have been.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mr. L muttered, slumping.”But I don’t even know- that. Why I am the way I am.”

O’Chunks didn’t answer, and Mr. L felt the tension building again, like it seemed to be doing so often between them lately. He tapped his fingers against the steps, letting out an anxiety he was hesitant to let show any other way.

“Yesterday…” he started, and then trailed off, unsure. “Yesterday, I saw things. In there.” He nodded at the woods, the tall pines stretching like a boundary line in the distance.

“Well, yeah, yeh aren’t blind, are yeh?”

“Don’t joke right now,” Mr. L snapped, “I’m being serious! And I didn’t really see them either, I think… I think I remembered them.”

O’Chunks sobered immediately. “T’at’s… strange.” His tone was odd, but Mr. L took no notice of it.

“I didn’t know what to make about it either,” Mr. L whispered. “Why would I be remembering things, now of all times.”

“Dimentio?”

Mr. L shook his head. “I don’t think so,” He said, knowing what O’Chunks was asking. “He couldn’t… I mean, I guess he could, but why would he?”

Other than to fuck with me, of course, Mr. L thought.

O’Chunks shrugged. “I don’t know,” He said, and he sounded tired. “I don’t try teh make out his intentions anymore.”

“I shouldn’t,” Mr. L muttered, “But I do anyway.”

O’Chunks shrugged again, and didn’t answer.

Mr. L blew out a breath and bent his head, running his fingers through his uncombed, unwashed hair. He was shaking, he noticed, and he hated that he was.

“I’ll try harder,” he started again, trying to make his voice strong, “I know we gotta make this work, somehow. No other choice, right? We’re stuck in this place together after all.“

“You really think you could be anything more than a stubborn jerk?” His voice was light and teasing, and Mr. L found himself relaxing.

“If you could find it in yourself to stop being a brainless meathead,” he shot back.

O’Chunks let out a weak chuckle. “It’s not moving,” he said, as if just noticing. “Not really a proper sunset.”

“Not sure I’ve seen a proper sunset before,” Mr. L admitted, “But even I know it's supposed to go down, right? Looks like Dimentio’s not all that he thinks he is.”

O’Chunks gave a good laugh to that one.

“I’d say so,” He said, a note of amusement in his voice. “Maybe he’s not seen a proper one eit’er.”

Mr. L nodded, swallowing down a bit of bile that rose in the back of his throat. He really wasn’t feeling well, still, but throwing up in the grass wouldn’t solve anything. “The woods are off too,” He said quietly. “Don’t know if I told you. Too quiet, I think. And the trees- you might know better, but they’re probably not-right either.”

“Mhmm,” O’Chunks agreed, then said, “What did yeh remember yesterday?”

Mr. L stiffened, and looked back down to his hands, lightly streaked with trails of blood that he hadn’t quitemanaged to wipe off. “I…”

His pause, however short, was enough to frustrate O’Chunks, who leaned back and let out an exasperated breath. “Just tell me, you damn fool. What am I going to do to you? We've been ‘ere for this long, and yeh still don't trust me?"

“It’s personal, okay!” Mr. L spat back, though wincing from the bitterness in O’Chunks’s words. “I don’t even know what to make of it myself! It’s not like you would know either!”

“Then what-”

“I saw stuff I know didn’t come from me,” he hissed. “Happy? I know what Nastasia said, that I used to be someone else, and it didn’t matter to me back then, but it’s starting to. I saw that hero, Mario, and some green guy, looked like Mimi’s kid brother or something. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

O’Chunks was quiet, staring at him with his face oddly pale. 

“What’s wrong?” Mr. L mocked, getting a vicious sort of pleasure from the other’s obvious horror. “I’m trusting you, isn’t that what you wanted? Go ahead, tell me O’Chunks, who was I before I was me?”

The expression on O’Chunks’s face darkened all of a sudden, and Mr. L recoiled.

“Only Nastasia can answer that question. And she’s dead.”

The vehemence in his voice made Mr. L flinch. He ducked his head and didn’t dare meet O’Chunks’s gaze.

After a moment, O’Chunks stood, grunting as he stretched stiff muscles. His steps were heavy, and Mr. L didn’t look up as he heard the door slam.

The sun clicked off, leaving him in darkness.

“It’s not supposed to be like a lamp, you know,” he told it, then dropped his head to cradle it in his hands.

He just wished he could go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coming up into the home stretch... these next last few chapters are my favorites. they're also the longest too, so be prepared.


	6. Claudication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> read the tags for this one y'all! might want to skip to the last chapter, or at least near the end of the next if ur not up for it

It was with no small amount of trepidation that Mr. L emerged from his bedroom the next morning. He knew O’Chunks was awake- he’d bumbled down the hallway, making a horrific amount of noise at an even more horrific hour earlier that morning- and Mr. L had no desire to face him angry again. After spending a good half hour picking out clothes and stalling, he bit the bullet and made his way towards the kitchen. O’Chunks was there, as expected, leaned back in one of the dining chairs, eyes closed. He opened them as Mr. L entered the kitchen, stopping a few steps into the room. 

He didn’t seem too mad, Mr. L thought. 

“Hey,” He said. 

O’Chunks glanced up at him, but didn’t smile. “Hey,” he replied. “Breakfast?” 

His tone and the invitation seemed innocent enough, and Mr. L relaxed just a smidge.

“Nah, I was just going to walk a bit.” He replied, and added, “You want to come with?” 

O’Chunks shook his head. “I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind.” he said. “Are you feeling well enough though?” 

Mr. L shrugged, stepping towards the door as innocuously as he could. “A little nauseous I guess, but good enough. I just-” He paused. “I can’t stay cooped up in this house any longer.” 

“I understand,” O’Chunks said evenly. 

“I won’t be long,” Mr. L promised. “And I’ll eat breakfast when I get back.”

O’Chunks nodded and leaned his head back, his eyes following Mr. L as he slowly and cautiously continued outside. 

Mr. L couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief as the door closed behind him. That went better than he thought it would. Thinking back, it was just about the longest conversation they’d had without biting each other’s heads off. He could only hope that sort of fragile truce would last longer than one conversation.

Shaking his head, Mr. L bounded down the steps and headed towards the forest. 

Going back to just walking in circles just wasn’t possible anymore, not when there was a whole new place to explore a short walk away. He wouldn’t stay long, he promise himself. Just long enough to stop feeling so restless.

His footsteps slowed as he reached the edge of the forest, the pine needles creating a bedding under his-regrettably bare feet. He hadn’t even thought to grab shoes before he left. 

Not that it mattered, Mr. L reminded himself. He wasn’t going to stay long. 

After a few moments of hesitation, he entered the line of trees, and walked fully into the quiet, serene woods. 

It was still deathly quiet, he noted, heading vaguely in the direction he thought the fallen tree might be in. Still empty, devoid of life. Despite of the fact, or perhaps, because of it, he couldn’t help garner some sense of inner peace from quiet. There was always noise in the house. Footsteps, weights-clinking, and sometimes, even when they were both still, there was just the sounds of the house existing, a hardly audible background noise.

There was a cracking sound that echoed as Mr. L stepped on a fallen branch. It rang through the air before fading off, and he continued on. There was not yet any site of the tree, but he wasn’t worried; he could find his way back if he got lost. 

Should he be thinking, he thought suddenly with a jolt of fear, or should he be trying to keep his mind quiet? Before, the memories came almost seamlessly within his thoughts, coming hard and fast and without any way to stop them, no matter how he tried.

“This is a bad idea, isn’t it?” He muttered, not noticing that he spoke aloud. 

It had to be. And he had to be the dumbest man in the world - or third dumbest, thinking of who else was in this world- because he didn’t care if it was bad. He wanted to remember. 

He wanted to know the names of things, and keep them in his head. He wanted to know what he used to know, before he lost his memories and everything went to hell. 

But what would that accomplish in the end, he thought, suddenly tired.

“This _is_ a bad idea,” He sighed again, running a hand through his hair. He might as well just head back home and tiptoe through another stilted conversation with O’Chunks-

“That it is.” 

Mr. L flinched and whirled around, finding Dimentio floating only a few feet away. Something was off about him, and it took him a moment to figure it out- Dimentio wasn’t smiling. That was never a good sign.

“I told you not to come here.” 

“You just said to leave, actually,” Mr. L shot back, but his voice was devoid of its usual defiance. “You didn’t say I couldn’t come _back_.” 

Dimentio sighed, shaking his head slowly. “You knew what I meant,” he said slowly, patiently, as though speaking to a child. “Must I spell out every command for you?” 

“Command?” Mr. L sputtered. Dimentio’s expression didn’t change, and Mr. L felt his protests melting away. They stared at each other. 

“Look,” Mr. L started, but Dimentio cut him off. 

"I told you not to come back,” Dimentio repeated, his voice cold. “Don't come crawling to me when you get hurt, playing with things you have no business with.”

Before Mr. L could reply, Dimentio disappeared, teleporting away with that stupid familiar ping.

Angrily, Mr. L turned to walk back to the house- then stopped. He didn’t have a single clue of where he was. He turned around, examining his surroundings, searching for a recognizable landmark, but there was none. 

“I could leave!” He yelled, “If you didn’t make every tree in this stupid place identical!” 

There was no answer. Not that he expected one. Muttering under his breath, he picked a direction and started walking, stomping through the hard dirt and carpet of needles as though it would change anything. 

After around five minutes in that direction with no visible change in the scenery around him, he changed directions. Five minutes later, Mr. L paused, looking around. Even the branches were identical he thought with disgust, and maybe a sliver of worry. 

“Okay, I get your point,” He called out, his voice shaking. “I could really use some directions?” 

No answer. Mr. L kept walking.

The sun, which had begun its rise somewhere to the east, or opposite where the house face was- He didn’t know directions- had now travelled near directly above him. 

“Good Grambi,” he muttered. O’Chunks was going to think him a liar at this point.

He slowed, kicking at the pine needles and scattering the neat carpet into ragged piles aside his path. Watching the sun, he moved himself until it was directly above him. If it faced the house, he mused, he should be able to head in the opposite direction to get home

_This_ was how he won petty games like this, by using his head, he thought triumphantly. 

After about an hour he guessed, although he really couldn’t tell, as the ‘sun’ didn’t move an inch, Mr. L finally stopped near the crest of a hill and flopped to the ground, breathing hard. 

“You’re really not going to give this up, huh?” he said, to no answer. 

His feet hurt, his shirt was wet from sweat, and Mr. L was about ready to give up and lay here until Dimentio stopped acting like a jerk. 

“The silent treatment, huh?” Mr. L yelled out. “Real mature. You’re acting just like Mi…” The name died on his lips. “Like Mimi,” he finished in a mutter, unwilling to back down. 

There was still only silence and stillness around him, but Mr. L shivered as a chill ran down his back. 

“Just let me go home,” he groaned, getting back to his feet and brushing the dirt off his pants. “You really are just throwing a temper tantrum at this point.” 

He paused for a moment, looking over the viewpoint the hill granted him. It wasn’t much, but he was high enough to see a good bit of stretching land as it swooped down like a bowl, leading out to a seeming infinite splatter of trees and foliage, green and brown. He stepped a few steps closer to the edge, tracing the curve of the ground with his eyes. That was one good thing about this ordeal, he conceded. The view wasn’t incredible, or awe-inspiring, but it was something new, and he had been without new things for too long. He took a few steps closer to look, minding thedrop. 

As he looked over the silent, tranquil nest of trees, two hands pressed against his shoulder blades. 

Mr. L felt himself go forward. 

Before he could catch himself, or scream, or do anything other than flinch, he fell, hitting the ground hard, and the world tumbled to black. 

—

“Fortunate is the man who has never tasted God’s vengeance!

Where once the anger of heaven has struck, that house is shaken.”

(Ode 2, lines 1-2)

—

“There is no happiness where there is no wisdom;

No wisdom but in submission to the gods.

Big words are always punished,

And proud men in old age learn to be wise.”

(Exodus, lines 139-142).

—

Mr. L awoke sometime later, the sun directly overhead and shining into his eyes.

He groaned, turning his head to get away from the light, feeling pine needles fall off his cheek. His head, his leg- everything hurt, a persistent throbbing all over his body that forced him out of his drowsy state and further and further into awareness. 

He must have passed out. Mr. L couldn’t pinpoint when, but he remembered falling, and he remembered being pushed- the culprit immediately came to mind, but he didn’t dare speak the name. Hardly even allowed himself to think it before he pushed those thoughts away and brought them back to the pain and the sun in his eyes. 

Bringing his hands underneath him, he pushed himself up and balanced with one palm in the dirt, swaying with a wave of dizziness. Something wet trickled down his cheek; he raised his other hand to wipe it away, and his fingers came away red. Blood. He must have scraped it on the way down. 

Mr. L went to stand, and immediately stifled a scream as he moved- Lightning bolt pain struck up his leg, and he collapsed back on the ground, eyes tightly closed as he waited for the throbbing to ease. 

“Grambi,” he hissed through gritted teeth, a sound that was a plea and a curse all at once. 

When it had finally died to a manageable level, Mr. L opened his eyes again, finding himself looking up at the picturesque, perfect blue sky. 

He didn’t want to look. Grambi, he didn’t want to look. 

Mr. L sat up again, this time being careful to keep his leg still. Slowly, his gaze trailed down, over his clothes, matted and clung to by dark, damp dirt, and onto his throbbing leg. 

His heart dropped into his stomach. 

Dark brown and red, the wooden stick had stabbed directly through his calf, one splintered end shining with blood in the sunlight filtering through the trees. He moaned, unable to stop the reflexive sound as his eyes hung over the wound, watching as red dribbled down his skin and pattered onto the dark dirt below. 

A tourniquet, a bandage, his mind hummed, playing words on a loop that he’d never heard _in his life_ but knew anyway, techniques that he remembered just like he remembered how to drop an engine or clean a spark plug. _Can’t take it out,_ it whispered, _it would bleed too much._

Bleeding aside, he knew he wouldn’t be able to pull it out, even if he wanted too. Just moving it had been torture; pulling it out would be so much worse. 

He had to get home, he affirmed to himself, had to get home- O’Chunks would help. 

It was several seconds before he dared move- he kept his eyes on the end of the stick as he slowly raised his leg above the ground. No added pain, at least not at first, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He glanced up at a nearby tree, and bracing one hand against it, pushed himself off the ground, rising up slowly and steadily. His good leg trembled at the strain. When he was fully standing, he leaned himself against the tree before touching the injured foot to the ground. It wasn’t pleasant, but he wasn’t falling to the ground screaming. He lifted it again and switched to balancing on the good leg for a brief moment. This was doable. He could hop from tree to tree, and sure he’d look ridiculous, but it would still probably get him home.

If he could find his way home, that is. Mr. L looked around, but there wasn’t any change that he could immediately see; he was now at the bottom of the hill, and the ground still gently sloped down toward more and more forest. At least two directions were off the list then, he thought to himself, so it was around a fifty-fifty shot as to the right one. If there was a right one. 

Making a decision, Mr. L balanced on his good leg and hopped to the nearest tree, gritting his teeth as the impact caused a shudder through his wound. 

As he moved to jump to the next, he tripped- whether on a tree root, or another branch, he couldn’t tell. Mr. L fell, shutting his eyes tightly for the pain he knew was coming- and it hit him with the force of a train, spots dancing in front of his eyes as he screamed with the tearing sensation of the wood twisting and pulling in his flesh. 

He laid on the ground, trembling from the aftershocks. “Grambi,” he muttered, though it was more of a whimper. “Grambi, O’Chunks…” 

He could just wait here, he thought, and Dimentio would eventually come to his senses, or O’Chunks would come and...

But he wouldn’t help, Mr. L thought, closing his eyes with a sinking feeling, he hates me. 

The realization hurt. But it was the truth. And it was all his fault- every scrap of kindness O’Chunks offered Mr. L spat at. Every hand in friendship he slapped away; O’Chunks had tried and tried but Mr. L had only gone out of his way to make this hell even more of one. He was more likely to leave Mr. L out here than bother to rescue him- and he would be better off for it. 

Tears burned in his eyes, but Mr. L didn’t move to wipe them away. 

It was his own fault, he thought, if he died out here. 

Time passed. Mr. L didn’t move, other than to carefully roll himself on to his back, slowly, as to not catch on the stick. Between the pain in his leg dying to a dull throb and his thoughts that maybe he would try pulling it out again, if only to see if something different would happen, that Mr. L came to the realization he was being watched.

He opened his eyes and saw Dimentio, floating a few feet away, silent, and smiling as always.

“Dimentio, please, c’mon,” He pleaded. “You’re- you’re not going to leave me out here, stop trying to fool me.” 

He blinked, and Dimentio had vanished. 

Mr. L groaned, rolling his head back to look up as another wave of pain throbbed through his leg.

“Dimentio!” He screamed, the sound echoing through the trees, but to no response. 

He was alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was originally the last chapter before the epilogue, but it got so long, i had to break it up into 2 chapters. next chapter will be…. well, you’ll find out ;)


	7. He's Not Coming for You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> : (

The day passed slowly. Mr. L kept his eyes closed, but he knew time was passing as the light faded from the gently rustling trees. Wind, he thought idly, was that new? He couldn’t remember. The forest was still silent as death. Not a bird or squirrel or whatever animal to be found. 

Was O’Chunks even worried about me? He wondered, then answered, no, of course not, he was probably celebrating having a quiet house and no roommates who didn’t cook or clean or acted like assholes. 

Opening his eyes, Mr. L looked tiredly at the now familiar sight of the blood-stained stake stabbed through his leg. It’d finally stopped bleeding, he noted, and the blood was dry and crusted around the entry point. 

After a few moments of hesitation, he shuffled back, lifting his leg above the ground and pushing until he felt a hard surface behind him. With equal carefulness, he lowered his leg, and wrapped both hands around the stick.

Deep breath.

Then he pulled.

It was a valiant effort- a strong yank, but the pain hit, drawing all his strength from his arms as stars swung in front of his eyes. He slapped one hand over his mouth to muffle the scream that bubbled out of his throat, scratching and clawing all the way as pain throbbed over him in waves. 

It died down again a few minutes later. Mr. L opened his eyes and saw that he had only managed to move it a few inches- not far enough to pull the rest out, but far enough that fresh blood ran down his leg, trickling down in a stream to the dirt below. 

This would never work, not alone. The angle was too awkward for him to pull it straight out. Could snap it on one side, he thought hazily, panting as the pain eased, but that would mean… He reached again with one pale, trembling hand, but at the last second, clenched his hand into a fist, and let it fall. 

Pain. It would mean more pain, and he just didn’t have the strength. 

He closed his eyes and rested. The throbbing never really ceased all together. He did his best to ignore it as the light faded slowly from the trees around him, bringing orange sunbeams to shine through the leaves and hover around him in a halo. 

When it stopped fading, and seemed to stall, as if waiting for an unknown signal. Mr. L started to breathe just a bit quicker, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Dimentio?” He called, a little more desperation than he’d like in the thin sound of his voice, echoing through the trees. 

There was no answer. Dimentio wouldn’t really leave him out here in the dark, would he?

“Funny joke,” he muttered, his breath picking up further, “Funny joke, Dimentio…” 

Mr. L wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t, but he would bet the world Dimentio was, as a few final seconds passed, and the sun flipped to dark.

He squirmed, trying not to panic. This was different, far different from the darkness of his bedroom, with the pitch black outside the window; different still than the almost ever-present black that was Castle Bleck. He couldn’t just turn on a lamp to illuminate his surroundings out here. He couldn’t make out the familiar shapes of furniture as his eyes adjusted, or even soothe himself with the softness of a blanket or mattress. All he could really do was listen, but it wasn’t until this moment that Mr. L realized what true silence was.

No wind. No animals, no snoring from another room, or clumsy footsteps as another made his way through the house. No hum of machinery, of the idle robots that once inhabited his workshop. Even buildings make noises, make creaks and groans as they stand unyielding unto themselves. 

Trees did nothing of the sort. Not without outside interference, he realized. 

He shifted, and almost jumped from the sound of rustling pine needles, so loud did it seem in the quiet and the stillness of the void around him.

“Not…” The word died away. 

The world was quiet, and the world was dark. 

At some point he must have drifted to sleep, because when Mr. L opened his eyes again, it was thankfully day. He rubbed his eyes and looked blearily around the clearing; it was midmorning he guessed, from the dimness of the sunlight filtering through the trees. He looked at his leg. It had stopped bleeding again. Mr. L looked away again. 

O’Chunks, he thought, and considered calling out for him, but didn’t bother. O’Chunks wasn’t looking for him, after all, didn’t care, wasn’t worried. Would probably ignore him even if he’d heard screams for help. 

His mouth opened anyway, only for a second, but Mr. L snapped it closed. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep again.

The day passed slow, but night came again as always, and with it, the heavy, overbearing darkness. 

Mr. L couldn’t sleep. He laid awake and suffered the hard, heavy thump in his chest as the night seemed to press down around him, smothering him in his embrace. It wasn’t until he reached up to wipe away tears that he realized he’d been crying.

Day came.

This was going to be a slow death, he realized, as the dryness in his throat notched up another mark, a slow, painful death, and the worst part of that realization was that he still wasn’t even sure if Dimentio would let him die at the end of it. 

Night.

He slept in quick, short dozes that he always woke up from in what felt like minutes. There was no moon. The only way to tell the time passing was the growing hunger in his gut and the yearn for water. Dewdrops, he thought, if there would just be some dewdrops in the morning, he’d sink so low as to drink those, and then he fell back to sleep. 

He didn’t dream.

Day.

Mr. L wrapped his hands around the stake and he jerked, he twisted with everything he had, but it still wasn’t enough. He was left screaming and the stick was left still stuck in his leg, only a few inches of red, gore stained wood to show his effort.

Mario. The hero. Mario, his brother. He wished Mario was here. Mario, who always had his back.

Mario, who was dead.

Night.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “I’m saying it, see? I’m sorry Dimentio, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t leave me here any longer please, let me go home. Please, let me go home.”

Dimentio didn’t answer, and day came.

He didn’t have a home anymore, he realized. It was gone. Everything, everyone was gone. Every friend he had, every enemy he ever made, every person he knew and didn’t, they were dead, eaten, destroyed by the Void. This was his life now, and this was all it would ever be, until another Void came and destroyed this world, or maybe, until he was finally allowed to die, though Mr. L knew, in every part of himself that was still him, he would never be. Dimentio would rather just see him suffer, and suffer he would, trapped in eternity. Alone. Alone. 

Alone. 

—

Day.

“Grambi, this place is big.” 

Mr. L opened his eyes.

In the dim light of the early morning, he squinted with tortured eyes, glancing through the too-familiar surroundings for any change. A part of him hoped he’d heard something. A part of him _knew_ he’d hallucinated, and to just give up, fall back into the doze his waking hours had become.

“Mr. L!” O’Chunks called again. “Yeh out ‘ere?” 

“O’Chunks!” He screamed, or tried to. His voice, hoarse from the occasional screaming and disuse, didn’t rise far from a whisper, but it was enough. The footsteps paused. 

“L?”

He coughed and tried again. “O’Chunks! I’m here!”

Footsteps came rushing towards him, and within a few moments, O’Chunks was there, kneeling at his side, already wincing as one hand cupped his cheek. “Yeh look terrible,” he murmured. “What- what happened?” 

Mr. L dropped his eyes. “Fell,” he muttered. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think you were coming.” 

“I’ve been lookin’,” he said urgently, a promise, a reassurance. “I wasn’t gonna just leave yeh out ‘ere.” 

Mr. L nodded, unwilling to meet the other man’s eyes. “I don’t think I can walk,” he admitted.”I tried.”

“Didn’t expect you to.” O’Chunks replied tersely. He glanced down at the stake and his hands hovered over him for a moment, hesitating, but finally O’Chunks put one hand on his back, and started to slip the other one under his knees. “I’ll try not to jar yeh,” he warned, “But no promises.” 

Mr. L clenched his teeth and nodded. “It’s just my leg that’s hurt,” he said. “What do you want me to do?” 

“Just stay still,” O’Chunks assured. “‘Ere, put yeh ‘and on my shoulder.” 

Mr. L obeyed, and with one final pause, O’Chunks lifted him off the ground. 

He breathed out, finally, as O’Chunks stood up, and no new throb of pain came from his dangling leg. “I’m good,” he added, as he noticed the other man’s worried gaze on him. “It… You didn’t hit it, it’s manageable.” 

O’Chunks nodded, and after a brief adjustment of the man in his arms, he set off walking through the woods. Mr. L studied his face, but his expression was hard, and unreadable. 

“How did you know where to go?” Mr. L asked, his voice barely over a whisper. “I got lost, I… went in circles, I think.” 

“I don’t know,” O’Chunks admitted. “I was looking for yeh when yeh didn’t come back. Whenever I’d walk in this place, I’d just walk right back out a few minutes later. Didn’t matter which direction I went or how.” 

Their eyes met. Neither of them said aloud what they both knew.

“Yer light,” O’Chunks remarked. “What yeh been eatin’, lad?” 

His tone was light, as if he meant it as a joke, but Mr. L was far from a joking mood. “Nothing,” He muttered. “Haven’t eaten since…” he trailed off. “...that soup. I think.” Days, he thought. He couldn’t remember how many ago it had been, not with the haze still in his head.

The small smile dropped from O’Chunks’s face. Mr. L felt his hands tighten around him. “Sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Mr. L muttered, and closed his eyes. It was easy to fall into a doze again, with the gentle movement of O’Chunks’s footsteps as he traversed the forest floor, and the warmth of his chest easing into his long chilled skin. 

A little further into the journey, Mr. L opened his eyes again, blinking in the light. He focused on O’Chunks’s face above him, clearly in deep thought.

“Luigi,” He said. 

There was a flash of expression across O’Chunks’s face, gone in a second, but it was all the confirmation Mr. L needed. 

“You knew?” 

O’Chunks pressed his lips together, but nodded. 

The betrayal shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. Not with the other aches and throbs in his body. But Mr. L still found himself blinking back tears.

“Why?” When O’Chunks hesitated, he elaborated, “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say anything? About Mario, about-” he paused, not daring to say Nastasia’s name out loud. “Me being a hero?” 

“I wanted teh,” O’Chunks murmured. “But when could I bring it up? Yeh were so angreh. Snappish, Pushy too, even when I tried to be the bigger man.” 

Mr. L dropped his eyes. He couldn’t deny it. 

“And,” O’Chunks’s face tightened, “Why should I say anything when you wouldn’t either?” 

“I-” 

“What happened teh t’e Count?” 

Mr. L was silent. O’Chunks nodded to himself, and they continued on in silence. He closed his eyes and didn’t open them again until he felt the rhythm of O’Chunks’s steady steps change. The sky was open above him, blue and cloudless as the pair finally exited the forest. Mr. L turned his head. The house was there, and unchanged, and it was such a welcome sight he could have wept. 

Taking care not to jostle his passenger, O’Chunks climbed the front steps and paused before he entered the house. 

“What are you doing?” he murmured, as O’Chunks made to set him down on the porch.

“We’ll get blood on the floor.” 

Mr. L wanted to laugh- how could that be a worry _now_ , with- but he turned his head and nodded, as if he understood.

“I’ll get some towels,” O”Chunks murmured, and hurried quickly into the house, leaving Mr. L alone.

He sat up only partially, trying to catch a glimpse of the wound, before flinching and laying back down. 

It did not look any better. Worse, actually. As time had passed in the forest he’d stopped looking at it, unwilling to watch as the limb grew colder and seemed to throb harder. Only then did he see just how bad the wound had got. The skin around the stake had turned a bloodshot red, swollen and taut, as though it was ready to pop. It looked infected. It looked _bad._

The door opened and O’Chunks appeared again, towels hung over one arm and a bowl of water in his hand. He kneeled down beside Mr. L on the floor, and hovered. 

“L,” He said gently, drawing Mr. L’s terrified gaze, “I have teh pull it out.” 

“...I know.” 

“It won’t be bad,” he promised. “Just like taking out an arrow. Easier, even.” 

“It’s going to hurt,” He mumbled, and he didn’t need O’Chunks’s hesitant nod to confirm it. Mr. L closed his eyes. “Do it,” He said, his voice almost a croak. “Do- do it quick.” 

He felt a twinge as the hand wrapped around the stake. O’Chunks hesitated. 

“Do it _quick, please-”_

He screamed, and his eyes opened wide. The pain rose to a crescendo that never seemed to break, heightening and heightening. He felt one hand holding him down, and vaguely saw the stone-like, determined set of O’Chunks’s face as he pulled- 

Then the world quieted, and he tumbled into black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter before we end this thing folks!


	8. Capitulate

“You want to remember? Then fine. Remember.” 

_Mr. L paced up the winding corridor, making his way to the meeting room. It was late, really too late to be calling a meeting, but he guessed the Count knew best. O’Chunks was due to fight those heroes again anyway, and maybe he had just gotten back, and the Count wanted everyone present when he gave report._

_He yawned. He would’ve much rather ignored the summons and slept a little longer, but he could only imagine the lecture Nastasia would give him for such blatant… what would she call it, he pondered. Unprofessionalism. Yeah, that sounded about right._

_It was ten minutes past the hour when he finally arrived. Mr. L opened the doors, and stopped._

_The meeting room was empty, and it should’ve been his first clue to walk right back to bed and not come back. Instead, Mr. L stepped forward slowly, looking around in confusion. Shouldn’t the others be here already?_

_“Rather late now, aren’t we Mr. L?” He whirled around. Dimentio was floating in his usual spot, eyes twinkling madly under the mask. “Lucky, then, that our dear Count is not around to see such tardiness from his minion.”_

_“Not around?” Mr. L repeated. Then it clicked. “Did you call me here?” A laugh was his only response. Mr. L huffed. “Figures. Funny prank, Dimentio. Wow.” He fought back another yawn. “I’m going back to bed.”_

_“Ah, but you wouldn’t want to miss the show now, would you?”_

_He squinted at the jester. “What show?”_

_Dimentio wagged a finger at him. “I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you now. Suffice to say, our dear leader should be here soon enough, like an animal stepping directly into a bear trap.”_

_“It’s too late for this,” Mr. L complained, walking towards the door, but before he could reach them, Dimentio snapped his fingers, and the doors slammed shut. Mr. L glared at the jester, his glare only deepening when he heard them lock as well. “Really?”_

_“Ah hah ha,” Dimentio leaned back in the air, unapologetic. “As I said, you shouldn’t leave, not unless you want to miss seeing something truly incredible.”_

_Mr. L rolled his eyes. “Incredible. I’m sure. Let’s just say I do want to miss it. Unlock the doors.” Mr. L paused, having finally noticed the object stowed under the jester’s arm. “Wait, is… is that the Dark Prognosticus?”_

_“Oh, this?” Dimentio took the book out with one hand, holding it up for a moment, before throwing it up in the air. Mr. L cried out, but the book didn’t tumble to the ground as he thought it would; It hovered beside Dimentio, seemingly on its own magic. “Why, yes it is. Wonderful observation, Mr. L.”_

_“That’s the Count’s,” Mr. L said. “What are you doing with it?”_

_Dimentio only grinned in response. Mr. L found his eyes being drawn to the book at his side, shuddering at the feeling of malevolence exuding from the thing. He couldn’t help taking a step back, and if the doors hadn’t been locked, he would have ran._

_“It has chosen me,” Dimentio murmured. “I am its new master. I now control the fate of all the worlds,” His eyes met Mr. L’s, “And their inhabitants.”_

_“It’s-“_

_Mr. L jumped as the sound of flipping rang through the room. Dimentio straightened, turning to the furious man who stood on his pedestal, one hand gripped tight on his staff._

_“It looks as though our main act has arrived.” Dimentio murmured._

_“Dimentio!” Count Bleck hissed. “Give the Count-”_

_“No.”_

_The Count faltered, visibly drawing back with the simple denial. His eyes floated to the book. “You have stolen the Dark Prognosticus from Count Bleck. Do not think-”_

_“Stole, Count?” Dimentio said. “I think not. I took not possession of it, rather, it of me. You’ve fallen out of favor, I’d believe. A pity, seeing how you worshiped it for so long.”_

_All of the anger melted away. “Count Bleck should have known you would betray him as such.” He looked tired all of a sudden, tired and resigned, but Mr. L thought he saw a hint of relief in the expression that came over his face._

_Dimentio snapped._

_His magic lashed out, sharp and deadly, too quick to stop, too quick to warn about._

_Count Bleck fell._

He struggled to wake, desperately trying to avoid seeing rest of the memory already implanted in his brain. More memories came, one after the other. 

_Peasley laughed, flipping his golden hair over one shoulder. “I suppose you wouldn’t know. But we’ll manage without you,” He said with a sly look at Luigi, as if they were sharing a secret._

_Mimi stuck her tongue out at him. “Like I even care what big secret project you have going on in that dumb dirty workshop!” She yelled._

_The pout on her face said otherwise._

_“Promise me,” He said, and caught his brother’s still shaken gaze in his, “You won’t fall for any more letters about winning a mansion. You have no idea what I just went through.”_

_Mario nodded. “I think I can keep that one Weegie, no problem.”_

_“Seriously,” he muttered as Mario pulled him into a hug. “I hate ghosts.”_

_O’Chunks, eyes blank, the Floro Sprout bobbing on his scalp._

_“Don’t even,” Mario said, rolling his eyes. “I promise the Princess is exaggerating.”_

_“She’s not,” Bowser said, deadpan. “I saw him do it too.”_

_Nastasia hummed. “Yeah, k, I guess I could believe that,” She said, but before he could celebrate, she gave them a look over her glasses. “If Mimi hadn’t um, ratted you out hours ago.” She smirked._

_Mr. L groaned. He should’ve known he needed more than just candy to pay her off._

_“Does it matter?”_

_“Only if it matters to you.” Peasley’s gaze was hard, and Luigi squirmed under the scrutiny before the prince’s face lit up in a smile. “Moving on,” he said brightly, “I have a few cuttings set aside for you. I remember you mentioned wishing to grow my roses at your home, and I would be more than happy to share some secrets. Only if you swear to keep them, of course.”_

_“Of course, Your Highness,” Luigi murmured, hoping his blush wasn’t too obvious._

_Cold hands on his shoulder, holding him still._

_“You have to realize, Mr. L, the only reason I haven’t killed you yet is because I have a use for you,” Dimentio said, eyes glinting under his mask. “If you were to… defect, or otherwise not cooperate, why… I would think you would no longer be useful, hm?”_

His eyes opened. 

He was in his room, placed on top of the sheets. The bed was made underneath him, in the crisp, perfect way O’Chunks preferred. That didn’t matter so much, though. As he faded back into awareness, he remembered.

The first thing he did was pull up the pant leg and look at where the stick went into. There was dried blood, speckled across his skin and falling off in flakes as he moved. He scrubbed it away with his palm. No pain, not even the hint of a sore muscle. Underneath the blood, there was only a small, circular scar, the size of a penny.

He touched it with a finger in awe. Was it Dimentio’s doing? He didn’t know the jester could do that- but he guessed he shouldn’t be so surprised anymore. Dimentio was learning new things every day, or so he had been told. 

On impulse, he looked at his hands, and saw that the cuts there had been healed too. He flexed his hands for a few moments, then took a deep breath in, held it, pushed it out. He was fine. He was _alive._

He was starving too, though. 

There was a mess of towels where his legs had been, tied into knots- he guessed O’Chunks had wrapped the wound in them before carrying him to bed. His head snapped up. Was O’Chunks still- Mr. L froze and listened. After a few moments of silence, he heard the tell-tale snoring through the walls. O’Chunks was asleep and alive. He started to breathe easier. 

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Mr. L eased down, pressing his good leg against the floor, hesitating for a moment before touching the other to the floor. He rose slowly, waiting for the pain to hit, but nothing came. He took a few steps across the room. 

He was pain-free, didn’t even have an ache from the fall. Mr. L knew if he checked, he probably wouldn't even have any bruises. 

It was as if the whole thing had never happened.

He changed clothes, and left with the dirty shirt and pants in one hand, intending to drop them in the laundry room. Only, he paused as he passed O’Chunks’s bedroom. The door had been left open a crack. The light of morning shone through a window, illuminating a much too large figure spread out on the bed; the sheets tangled around him, his chest rising and falling. His snoring was clearly audible, and after a few moments hovering, Mr. L made his way down the hall, taking care to be quiet.

Clothes dropped into the basket by the machine, he entered the kitchen, pausing as he caught sight of the forest through the window. A shudder ran up his spine, and he looked away quickly. 

He was starving, he thought, might as well make himself breakfast. 

He thought of the man lying not five feet away, snoring after searching for him, even after Mr. L doubted him. Even after riling him up at every turn, fighting and spitting on every attempt at friendliness. His conscious burned.

With a groan, Mr. L turned towards the stove, already planning how much he’d have to cook for them both to eat that morning. He guessed he sort of did owe the guy.

He guessed he could try to make breakfast, just this once. 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the end! It really turned out more of a straight rewrite than the prequel I intended it to be tho, but at this point, I'm just glad its finished.


End file.
